A Christmas Carol
by elanurel
Summary: Robert Cratchit has stumbled upon the nefarious dealings of his employer, Ebeneezer Scrooge, and finds himself in the midst of a problem that only the Winchesters can solve. Part of the Supernatural by Gaslight universe. COMPLETE
1. Mary's Ghost

_**A Christmas Carol**_

Twenty years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home.

This tale takes place within the **_Supernatural By Gaslight_** universe (AKA, the DeaneVerse), and is the prequel to the main storyline in _By Gaslight_.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchesters, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Deane Winchester, John Winchester, Robert Cratchit, Mrs. Cratchit, Martha Cratchit

Pairings (Overall): None

Rating (Overall): PG-13

Rating: PG-13 (Mild Gore)

Summary: The Winchesters return to London for the Holidays after John receives a letter from his college chum, Robert Cratchit. Deane is visited by a very disturbing apparition.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

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**Stave One: Mary's Ghost**

Mary Winchester was dead to begin with – there was no doubt about that. Deane Winchester had never doubted his father's accounting of the story. One need only look in Father's eyes to know that such an accounting was truth, or listen to the inevitable digression to the night their lives devolved into what they had become whenever John Winchester was deep within the throes of absinthe.

In truth, if someone had asked Deane whether or not his mother was dead as a doornail, he might have offered to take the offending party outside for a pugilism lesson – but it did not change the sad fact that such an appellation could be applied to his mother. This story, even sadder to say, relies much upon the incontrovertible fact that Mary Winchester _was_ as a dead as a doornail.

It was not, however, the underlying reason for the Winchesters' return to London nor did this inevitable fact explain why they were spending Christmas Eve dining with Father's old school friend, Robert Cratchit.

In point of fact, Deane blamed the letter. It was an infringement upon a long-standing Winchester tradition – to never set foot upon British soil during Christmas week. Father had received it the week prior, when the Winchesters were happily ensconced in Florence. Deane had spent quite the night carousing through the streets, hoping to find like-minded young women with whom to while away the hours. Well sated by his exploits, Deane had returned to the room he shared with his father – only to find him packing.

It was vexing, to say the least – and Deane Winchester was not a man easily vexed. Christmas was the most ill-conceived holiday known to Man, based on superstitions and beliefs in creatures that cared not for the well-being of others. Peace on earth would never occur while demons walked its roads, and men like the Winchesters would always be needed to fight them.

Deane had read the letter on the first coach out of Florence. There was no task his father would not perform for a fellow alumnus from Oxford – even if that meant returning to England to assist Robert Cratchit. To be fair, the problem did fall within the scope of the Winchesters' chosen profession, replete with hauntings and the undeniably evil magus – by name of Ebeneezer Scrooge – who controlled the evil spirits rifling through Mr. Cratchit's memories; spirits finding tiny little secrets that Scrooge was then using to blackmail Father's old friend.

It was not the Winchesters' first visit to the Cratchit family. They had attended the family some ten years earlier, when the youngest son – Timothy by name – was replaced with a changeling. It was a nasty little bugger that spent an inordinate amount of time spitting up a ghastly green substance on the ill-fated soul with the misfortune of carrying it; a task Deane unerringly, and with great pleasure, always assigned to Samuel in Father's absence. Changelings were, by and large, mischievous creatures and the experience would serve his brother well as a training exercise.

Perhaps it was simply the blasted holiday, but Deane felt the loss of Samuel's presence most keenly – the last time he sat at the Cratchit's table for dinner, he and Samuel had engaged in an offense with their peas. Even Father had flicked a pea or two when Mrs. Cratchit's attention was otherwise occupied by the newly returned Timothy – a squalling, red-faced child with a voice that could rattle the rafters. The changeling _was_ the better behaved of the two, despite its green spew.

There were diversions to be found during dinner, if one was clever enough to seek them out – and Deane Winchester was, for all his faults, a clever man. Martha, the eldest Cratchit daughter, was scarcely eighteen; a sly little minx with dancing brown eyes and red hair that curled pleasingly about her face. She was, truth be told, too young and untried for more enthusiastic pursuits but she flirted exceedingly well all the same, managing innuendo that women twice her age could not achieve – all within the observant presence of her mother.

In fact, it was with great resolve that Deane turned his attentions from their conversation on trifles to the more appropriate topic at hand. His father was already deeply involved in the initial phase of the investigation – it was at times such as this, when his father was skillfully interrogating a victim, that Deane realized he had learned his profession at the hands of an undeniable Master. He would consider himself lucky to be half the Hunter his father had become.

_If only the research was not so boring. _

Deane sighed. His father had been asking questions since they had met Cratchit at his place of employment – Ebeneezer Scrooge's lending house. The villain himself had come to the door to meet them, a gaunt man with a fringe of white hair about his bare scalp. Scrooge's clothes were old-fashioned in cut, assiduously patched in order to remain functional. The moneylender looked more like an asylum resident than a business man and, had Deane not been aware of his ability to control demons, Scrooge would still have raised a Winchester's suspicion. When he sat back down at his desk, Scrooge rested his chin on crossed fingers so skeletal, they appeared to be claws – and his beady eyes followed the Winchesters as they moved towards Robert Cratchit.

The appearance of Scrooge alone was something to make one feel sorry for Mr. Cratchit's circumstances. The son of a lord reduced to working for a moneylender due to the vagaries of his father's will; according to Father, the estate went to the oldest son from the first marriage. His widowed mother barely had enough money to send him to Oxford, but it was important to her that Robert Cratchit attend the college. Deane secretly believed that his father wished both of his sons followed in his footsteps in that regard, despite the education Deane had otherwise received through his experience.

"He seems to have an amazing control over the spirits he has called," John Winchester said, breaking into Deane's thoughts. Deane turned his full attention on his father. "Directing them towards specific memories. But why Christmas?" It was a rhetorical question; neither Deane nor his father expected Robert Cratchit to know the answer. "What significance does Christmas hold?"

"Perhaps it is a mockery of the holiday itself," Mr. Cratchit replied, pushing a pair of spectacles atop his nose.

Father frowned. "Perhaps." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "But it seems a strange way to gather blackmail material on someone," his father added. His eyes lightened suddenly. "Do you remember that Christmas we spent together back at Oxford?"

Robert Cratchit's eyes clouded. "Yes. And that is a memory that the blasted little child spirit seemed to find most astonishing."

His father shared a frown with his old friend, shaking his head. "I do not possibly remember anything we could have done during that holiday which would warrant an opportunity for blackmail."

Mr. Cratchit's eyes twinkled at the memory. "Excellent times, old friend." He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "Our youthful assignations are stories we must relay some day."

There were, however, assignations of an entirely different sort that Deane was positive Robert Cratchit would not wish discussed in the presence of his wife and children – exploits with other friends during holidays through the years, including an excursion the previous year that was discussed at great length when they walked from the moneylender's to the Cratchit's modest home. In point of fact, Robert Cratchit was an adulterer, consorting with all manner of women. Deane was not a man intended for commitment – the means had been taken from him when a demon killed his mother – but Mr. Cratchit's secret life had lent itself to blackmail, no matter how modestly he played his role as upstanding father and dutiful husband.

Deane frowned suddenly, distaste overwhelming his desire to eat – even his wish to continue flirting with the pretty little redhead sliding a piece of trifle in his direction. At least his assignations were honest, and only Deane himself was the one with the potential for lasting harm.

"I believe I shall take my leave, Mrs. Cratchit." Deane smiled at the woman, and her eyes positively beamed in response. "Dinner was excellent, but I am required to assist my father with research – and research waits for no man."

"Do we call it _research_, son?" His father hid a smirk.

Deane raised his eyebrows. "When one reads your journals looking for potential foes, what else am I to call it?" His voice was mild. _Bugger!_ He couldn't fool his father; there was a comely young maid back at the tavern next to the inn where they were staying – a brunette girl around Samuel's age. For all that the Winchesters had a predilection for women of the blonde persuasion, Deane always pursued their darker haired cousins when given the opportunity.

"Do not tire yourself out, Deane," Father admonished. "We will continue our investigations in the morning."

"On Christmas?" Martha gasped.

"Christmas is just another day on the Winchester calendar," Deane said shortly. "Good evening to you all."

Martha followed him to the hallway – an act of impropriety, save that her mother had accompanied her to the coat stand. "Surely you do not mean such words, Mr. Winchester?" The young woman's voice was anxious. "Christmas is a joyous time of year, full of celebrations." She lowered her brown eyes. "Do you know, I've always wanted to be mar – "

"Good evening, Mrs. Cratchit." Deane buttoned his overcoat furiously. _Damn Father for making me wear it._ His old pea coat was back in the room. There was much he would not give to be wearing it at that moment, perhaps for a stroll along the docks to clear his thoughts. "Until we meet again, Miss Cratchit," he added, with a smile that probably appeared as a grimace if the girl's expression was an appropriate judge.

_Blast and damn!_ It had begun to snow, and the short walk to the tavern was the closest substitute. There were carolers standing on the street corner, singing a melancholy rendition of _Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming_. That had been his mother's favorite Christmas carol, if Father was to be believed. Deane caught his scowling reflection in one of the nearby store windows – no wonder there were two children tagging his heels, taunting him about his lack of seasonal spirit.

_Seasonal spirit be damned._ Deane Winchester was off to the tavern for some whisky and a tryst with a dark-haired barmaid.

The barmaid, unfortunately, had other plans for the evening. She was sitting on the lap of a rough-looking man, dressed in shabby clothes and sporting the most ridiculous moustache Deane had seen in years. Deane never understood Society's approval of them, for he preferred his hair short and his face with just a bit of stubble upon his chin – he looked more like a boy than a man when he was clean-shaven, and there was the Winchester mystique to consider in such matters.

The idea of wooing the woman regardless was overturned by a shot of whisky. Deane decided he would rather pursue the eventuality of a good wallow in his cups versus the potential of a round of fisticuffs – and an evening of wallowing seemed to be in order. A hang-over would not be unforeseen, and added nothing to the horror that was the pending holiday, whereas a fight could cause bruising in tender places that interfered with other time-proven methods for muddling through Christmas.

He picked up his bottle of whisky, stopped with its cork, and proceeded next door. The chill of the wind was bracing, and the falling snow's gentle touch reminded him of the girl who used to kiss his freckles. _Blast! How can I be maudlin when I am sober?_

It was time to rectify that situation.

Deane grunted towards the innkeeper on his way up the stairs, and trudged towards the Winchesters' room. It was a nice inn – nicer than the usual hostels in which the Winchesters found themselves, if a trifle colder than most. Yet it was close to the Cratchit residence and boasted a tavern right next door, making it a perfect base of operations from his father's point of view. Deane was fortunate to discover a stack of wood near the fireplace.

Once the fire was underway, Deane slipped out of his overcoat – throwing it on his bed – and then divested himself of the waistcoat he wore underneath. _How can Samuel wear such a contrivance every day of his life?_ It was a question for which he did not expect an answer, given that Samuel was at Oxford. It had been several months – perhaps a little more than a year – since they last received a letter from Samuel. Deane hoped his younger brothers studies were going well, despite Samuel's disbelief in the assertion.

He rummaged through his father's satchel, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Quill in one hand and his tumbler of whisky in the other, Deane managed to pen a missive to his younger brother that – in his estimable opinion – manfully berated Samuel for his lack of contact during the last fourteen months. Hazel eyes perused the letter before searching for an envelope. _Those spots must be from when I spilled the whisky on the table. _If Samuel chose not to respond to the letter, Deane would attend Samuel at Oxford to continue his little brother's pugilism lessons.

"Deane."

It was a woman's voice.

He was in the midst of heating up wax for the seal. "Blast!" Deane blurted out as hot wax landed between his thumb and index finger. He set the seal down onto the table, bleary eyes turning towards the sound.

There was a woman floating three feet off the floor in front of the roaring fireplace. Deane blinked. It was not just any woman – it was a woman with flowing blonde hair, falling gently down to her waist but billowing around her in a gentle breeze of its own making. Her white nightdress likewise flowed in the light zephyr, and there was a tender look within the woman's eyes as she smiled at him.

It was his mother.

Deane glared at the bottle of whisky. _This is the last time I choose to drink a label against which I am not already well-informed!_ His eyes unfocused, and Deane began removing the wax from his hand.

"Do you know who I am, Deane?" the apparition asked.

He did not respond. Speaking to a phantom built solely from the zealous consumption of alcohol was not, by anyone's judgment, the act of a gentleman.

The remnant of his drunken exploits, however, was insistent. "Deane." There was urgency within the soft voice, and a sad look within the creature's eyes. "Do you know who I am?" she asked for a second time.

Deane sighed. "Although you appear to be the spirit of my mother, you are nothing more than the vestige of the three glasses of claret from dinner, or perhaps the spot of port I drank within Mr. Cratchit's study." He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose you could even be the result of a studious exploration of whisky, although I doubt that very much."

The woman smiled sadly. "I am none of those things." The hair billowed back behind her, and Deane's eyes widened. There was a bloodstained gash against her stomach, and he could see the entrails deep within the fold of the cut flesh. "I am, in truth, your mother." The thing had tears in its eyes.

"Ah. So nice of you to stop by and wish me a Happy Christmas, _Mother_." Deane snorted. A thought occurred, and he faced the thing with a grin. "Christo," he said softly.

Nothing happened.

"You have your father's stubbornness," the creature replied, staring at Deane with his mother's eyes. He felt a coldness sinking within his stomach, as his heart clenched within his chest. _Is it possible?_ Deane shook his head sharply. _It is not._ "And my time has grown short, for you also have your father's fondness for whisky," the apparition added, a sharper tone its voice.

"You are not a demon, and since I do not know of any friendly ghosts, I must once again reiterate that you are nothing but a figment of my intoxicated imagination." Deane folded his arms in front of his chest, and leaned back in his chair – tapping the ground expectantly with one booted foot while staring the specter in her tear-filled eyes. "Why are you not disappearing?" he asked, with a frown.

The breeze in which the creature floated grew brisk, and blonde hair whipped around the face he so long remembered – a face now staring at him with the gravest of expressions. "Enough, Deane!" Whatever it was, the creature engendered a fair approximation of his mother's annoyance whenever Deane had misbehaved as a child. "I am not disappearing for I have a task to fulfill."

"And that is?" Deane's voice was soft.

"You are in danger, son." The thing tilted its head. "Most profound and sincere danger!"

"Now I know you are nothing but a creation of my overactive mind," Deane retorted. "Father and I are fighting a magus who can summon spirits." He narrowed his eyes. "How do I know that you are not one of his spirits?" Deane demanded.

"I did not think it was possible for another man to be as stubborn as John Patrick Winchester!" the creature snapped. "I am not, nor have I ever been, the lackey of a magus. I was sent by those who consider your worth, and the worth of your family, to be of importance in the upcoming storms ahead." The body was outlined by curling licks of a bright yellow fire, almost as though the fireplace was sparking around it. "Tonight, the Monster puts a plan into fruition, and you are its target."

"What the devil do you mean by that?" Deane cried.

"I can say no more than this," the thing replied, fire growing more brilliant around her. "You will be haunted by three spirits and they have no other purpose than to break you, to find that which cuts you and use it against your very soul. Expect – " The fire had started to burn the edges of the nightgown, the billowing edges of her hair, and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. "Expect the first at midnight," the woman said. She opened her mouth to say more, holding out one hand before her, and the fire became so luminous – and the smell of burned clothing and flesh so overwhelming – that Deane could do nothing but stare. The slash upon her abdomen looked newly cut, and blood glistened in the fire's glow.

"Goodbye, Mother," he said softly when the fire flared and she disappeared completely. _You will be haunted by three spirits and they have no other purpose than to break you, to find that which cuts you and use it against your very soul._ What greater wound could the proffered spirits confer than the vision of his mother's death?

Deane Winchester picked up the whisky bottle with one shaking hand, and poured another tumbler. He swallowed quickly, glaring at the fireplace.

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A/N:

This story is the prequel to the main storyline in Supernatural by Gaslight (AKA, the DeaneVerse) – a frothy little confection that started life as a simple one-shot corset-ripper. A one-shot that spawned multi-fic sequels – and, apparently, this prequel. Such is the brain of elanurel when encouraged by the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

The original version of _A Christmas Carol_ was published in 1843. In order to fit into the existing storyline, I moved the story to 1883.

Morality was an important component of the Middle class in Victorian culture. ("Family Values" as defined today owes a great debt to the Victorian Middle Class, and its desire to differentiate itself from a 'corrupt' Upper Class through "morals.") To be considered immoral was a particularly untenable position. While the rules are much stricter for women, men were expected to always appear seemly and the threat held over Robert Cratchit is one that would impact both his social and business standing were the truth of his activities known. Even the Upper Class attempted to _appear_ moral.

The decision to use 'Deane' instead of the more familiar 'Dean' was my attempt to provide a more period-appropriate version of the name. I was able to date its use as a first name to 1623. Go, inner research geek.

Deane does, sad to say, have a "tragic romance" in his past – just like any other hero in a Victorian melodrama. Even Ebeneezer Scrooge had a chick he left behind, and he is no Deane Winchester. ;-P


	2. The First of the Three Spirits

_**A Christmas Carol**_

Twenty years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home.

This tale takes place within the **_Supernatural By Gaslight_** universe (AKA, the DeaneVerse), and is the prequel to the main storyline in _By Gaslight_.

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Disclaimer: The Winchesters, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Deane Winchester, Mary Winchester, Cecily Hillsworth, Penelope Hillsworth, Samuel Winchester, John Winchester

Pairings (Overall): None

Rating (Overall): PG-13

Rating: PG (Angst)

Summary: Deane Winchester is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past, and may pay the price for his disrespect.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

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**Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits**

The blasted chime of a clock marking the quarter to the hour caused Deane to jerk awake from a sound sleep, forehead no longer resting on his folded arms before him. He frowned. Father had not yet returned from the Cratchit's house. _Still at the Cratchits, no doubt. _

Hazel eyes stared blearily at the bottle of whisky sitting next to his letter to Samuel. Deane wondered if the barman had given him a bad bottle, tainted by something within the process, for the dreams resulting from half the jug were truly monstrous to behold. When he closed his eyes, Deane could still see her – his beloved mother, blood glistening across her abdomen, as she reached out to him. He shook his head sharply.

_Blasted whisky!_

It was simply a dream. What possible worth could Deane Winchester have that would require his mother's spirit to descend from Heaven simply to warn him of an impending haunting? The idea was preposterous – more than preposterous. It was absurd! Deane shrugged his shoulders. The burning had seemed genuine, to be certain, but it was not the first time Deane had occasion to remember such a stench; he had lived through the fire that killed several servants within the Winchesters' employ – and, most particularly, his _mother_.

The entire affair would have been much more enjoyable had Samuel been present. When Deane suggested a visit to Oxford later in the week, Father's eyes had widened as though Deane had fallen mad – even though Deane suspected that John Winchester was proud of his youngest son. It was not Samuel's fault that he fell under the influence of Practitioners at Oxford.

In point of fact, Samuel had been creating gadgets years before his father introduced him to Winston Hillsworth, a professor at Oxford who specialized in that branch of science so well-suited to Samuel's gifts. Hillsworth took one look at the Electro-analyzer Samuel created from a dinner plate and several steam-powered conductors and sponsored his membership within Oxford's Practitioner's Society on the spot.

Samuel most likely believed that such a relationship would increase his standing in his father's eyes; Hillsworth _was_ their old neighbor. Father's approval was a rare and precious gift; Deane had also made certain decisions – wholly unrelated to Samuel's calling – for that same sanction. Father's displeasure was not something to be borne lightly. Duty to the memory of Mary Winchester was all that mattered. A part of Deane admired his younger brother for following his dream. Deane's dream was no longer in reach.

_Bloody Christmas. _

Deane scowled, pouring himself another tumbler of whisky as the chimes outside marked the hour. He raised the glass, back to the fire, and caught something in its reflection. "What the devil?" he snapped, eyes focusing on what appeared to be a child standing behind him.

It was a strange figure – standing no higher than most children, but with the appearance of a shrunken old man. Its white hair fell like ragged straw around its shoulders, and the skin on its face was stretched – as though its small frame were a drumhead; the face bore no wrinkles. Both arms and legs were long and spindly, much like the fingers upon the figure's hands; so thin that Deane could make out the twist of bones at knuckles and knees. Its emaciated body was draped with a tattered white tunic, covered with rust and what Deane could have sworn were dead flowers, and it stared at Deane with sunken black eyes.

"I presume you are the first of the spirits about which I was warned?" Deane asked, every hair upon his head standing up in shock. Deane sipped his whisky slowly, hoping the spirit would not notice that his hand was shaking.

The figure nodded. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," it intoned. Its voice was thin and reedy, like a high-pitched wind whistling through a crack in a wall. It raised its left arm, pointing at Deane with one long-fingered. "I have come for you, Deane Winchester."

"Excellent!" Deane grinned. He saw the spirit frown within the glass as he swallowed another mouthful of his whisky. It was serving as an excellent tonic with which to calm his nerves. "I do not suppose we have time for me to finish my whisky."

"We do not," the ghost replied, and its voice had a metallic screech underlying its words.

"Pity," he returned. Deane set down the tumbler, pushing away from the table and slowly rising to his feet. He started. The smell of sulfur wafted into the room; Deane assumed through one of the cracks, and he half-glimpsed a flash of yellow eyes in a corner. _Now I am imagining body parts in addition to spirits. _

The apparition grasped Deane's right hand in its skeletal fingers. "You do not seem frightened."

"That is because you are nothing more than a dream derived from half a bottle of very poor whisky," Deane returned. "And I am asleep at this table, most likely drooling onto my shirt, while the alcohol works its way through my system."

The thing smiled maliciously, and its grip tightened around Deane's hand – so tightly, it felt like his bones would crack under the pressure. It pulled Deane's hand above its head, and they flew like zephyrs through the ceiling.

_Bugger me!_

* * *

_Mother was sitting on the long couch, one hand resting on the bulge in her belly. She let Deane touch it, too – his little brother or sister was inside, kicking to get out. Deane looked at her and grinned. The baby was going to love Christmas!_

"Why did you bring me here, spirit?" Deane demanded. "I remember the last Christmas I had with my mother."

"Do you?" the ghost retorted.

_The loud man from next door was yelling something at Father, his face red as his arms waved about them, but the pretty lady who always came with him to visit was sitting in the soft chair next to Mother's low couch. Deane liked the pretty lady. Her name was Cecily, Mother said, and she had green eyes that looked like they were lit up from the inside. But Cecily usually held the crying thing on her lap._

_Deane wrinkled his nose. The crying thing was called 'Penny,' and it cried every chance that it could. Cecily would coo at Pennye when it cried, but when Penny was quiet, sometimes Cecily would call Deane over to look at it. Penny hadn't cried all morning long, and Cecily placed it in a rocking cradle near the piano._

_He especially liked the pretty lady because she was always singing. In the summer, she sang songs that Deane didn't know – but they were pretty – but at Christmas she always sang carols! Deane loved carols almost as much as he loved Christmas. Today Mother stood near the piano, and they sang **Lo! How a Rose E'er Blooming** together. It was Mother's favorite carol. _

Deane's throat swelled. Mother looked so happy. He had forgotten how close the Winchesters were to the Hillsworth family – holidays, picnics, trips to London. Even after Mother was killed, they had stayed with the Hillsworth family until Father began the hunt for the creature in earnest.

_The crying thing pushed up one tiny fist in its cradle, and Deane walked over and placed both hands on one side – peering in to see what the thing looked like up close. Penny's eyes fluttered open, and they were as green as the pretty lady's. Mother told him that Penelope – and she used the big name that the loud man used – would get taller when **she** got older, and Deane believed it. Penny had hair!_

_"'lo, 'nelope," Deane said softly, touching one finger to Penny's small hand. Mother smiled at him when he used the big name, promising him that when 'nelope was as big as he was now, she would be Deane's friend – and he would have someone to play with in the garden. Penny looked at him and smiled. Deane brushed her smile with his fingers, and smiled back._

"Yes. _That_ worked out splendidly," Dean said sourly. _Penny…_ He would never show the spirit how that memory hurt almost as keenly as the look on his mother's face while she sang. "Are we quite done?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at the spirit.

"We are done _here_," the ghost intoned ominously, pointing its hand up towards the ceiling.

_Damn!_

* * *

_It was cold._

_Father was out hunting, one crisp warning to Deane as he left. Samuel would be Deane's responsibility; Deane was not to let Samuel out of his sight. Father was strict on that point. They had some meat pies purchased from the common room below, and a jug of water that the cleaning woman had brought up as part of their meal._

_But it was Christmas! _

_The last place Deane wished to be sitting was next to Samuel on the big bed, while he could hear carolers outside. He missed his mother terribly when he heard Christmas carols, particularly her favorite ones, but standing with the snow falling on his cheeks like gentle kisses always made him feel as though she were still alive – at least during the song._

_Samuel found his book of fairy tales, and thrust it towards Deane. "Please?" he asked in his little voice._

"This is patently ridiculous!" Deane frowned, watching the scene unfolding before him. "I know how this ends, spirit. I _was _there." And it did not end so well as Deane would have wished. The monster had almost killed Samuel. He swallowed.

"But it wounds you," it replied gleefully. "A cold pain in your chest, no matter how you protest." It clasped both hands together in front of its cadaverous chest and smirked. "And I could survive off the grief when your Father reprimands you. It is that potent, Deane Winchester."

_Deane sighed. "I want to listen to the carols."_

"_Don' go, Deane," his little brother said. The light from the lamps flickered against Samuel's small glasses. "Father will be upset." Samuel's shoulders shook a little at the thought. Father could get terribly angry._

"_It is only for two or three songs," Deane replied, pulling on his waistcoat. "Keep the doors locked, the windows latched and eat your meat pie."_

_Samuel shook his head. "Don' want the meat pie. I want my popper!" He pushed his glasses atop his nose, and Deane sighed; he took the green popper and handed it to his little brother. Samuel turned it over within his small hands. "Is it broken?" Blue-green eyes looked up at him._

_Deane's throat swelled. They had only been given two. Samuel was always getting the extra things. Father could never resist the weepy look in his younger brother's eyes. Deane tried because it was Christmas, and he had not had a Christmas popper for three years. He swallowed, tossing the popper onto the table next to his brother's tiny hand. "Now eat your pie," Deane hissed, walking out of the room. He could hear Samuel crying even when he was three doors down the hall. _

"I should have just given it to him," Deane said softly. Samuel had been a child – something which Deane had left behind after that last summer at Highchurch Manor. He had tried to make peace with Samuel, watching the monster siphoning his little brother's soul into itself, by giving him Mr. Whiskers. Even Mr. Whiskers could not make suitable amends – for the sounds of Samuel crying, or the look on his brother's face for weeks.

Samuel had no idea how important Mr. Whiskers was to Deane Winchester.

"Yes," the apparition returned, grinning at Deane maliciously. "But you were a self-centered child, and you chose to hurt your little brother instead. You are nothing but a bully."

Before Deane could respond, the spirit had raised its hand again to the sky.

They were followed by the sound of Samuels' tears.

_Perhaps it is correct…_

* * *

"_I do not understand why this is an issue, Father!" Samuel slammed his fist upon the table in front of him, rising to his full height. "I merely wish to attend Oxford." Samuel rolled his eyes. "**You** attended Oxford, or have you forgotten that?"_

"_The world is not the same as it was when I attended college," his father replied, arms folded across his chest. His eyes were flashing, and his voice was gruff. Samuel should have learned not to argue with that tone of voice._

"_The world is no different," Samuel retorted. "It is simply your perspective of it that has changed."_

"_Samuel," Deane interjected, "Is it so important to you?"_

"_Leaving this life?" Samuel's face was white. "Of course it is important. Mother would not wish us to live like this. **You** told me so."_

_Father's angry stare burned into Deane's face. "Is this true?" Deane nodded, feeling the color drain from his face. Father never spoke of Mother – someone needed to ensure that Mary Winchester was enshrined in Samuel's memory, and that task had fallen to Deane. Tales of Mother had become bedtime stories whispered in the backs of carriages and train cars. "I can raise my own son without your interference, Deane!"_

"_Yes, sir," Deane replied softly._

"_Are you going to allow Father to treat you like a child, Deane?" Samuel pushed his glasses atop his nose, staring at Deane as though he had fallen off the pedestal on which he had been placed – his younger brother's hero since he was four years old._

_It was an untenable position._

_Deane had accomplished more in regards to keeping his family together at the age of four than he did in all the intervening years. Father and Samuel fought as though their lives depended on it; Father was adamant that no Winchester would rest until Mother was avenged, and Samuel was resolute in the knowledge that Mother would not wish her sons to hunt for the remainder of their lives. _

_Deane coughed. "Samuel, Father has kept us alive – "_

"_Father has sheltered us, Deane. There is a world out there where people do not cower under their beds."_

"_You are the one who believes that world is no different than the one we live in," Father retorted. "You cannot change your argument to suit your purposes, Samuel!" Father's eyes glinted dangerously._

"_Perhaps Samuel could attend Oxford next year on a temporary basis?" Deane suggested. "He would not be leaving for several months." He could hear carolers on the streets below. What had happened to them? They did not even attempt to remember that it was Christmas – Mother's favorite holiday! "We do not need to make the decision this evening, at any rate."_

"_We are not having this conversation again," Father pronounced, and he grabbed his waistcoat from off the chair. "I will be in the tavern, sons." He stormed out of the room, the door slamming behind him._

"_I need to go to Oxford, Deane. I do not **want** this life!"_

"_I am cognizant of that fact, Sammy, but…" Deane's voice trailed off and he shrugged his shoulders. His younger brother did not balk at the use of his childhood nickname. "How do you intend to pay for Oxford?"_

"_I've already spoken to Mr. Meeks. Are you aware that Grandfather Hopkins set aside trust funds for us to use for our education? You could go to college as well," Sam returned. _

_Deane felt his stomach clench. He could pursue a different life. Perhaps she was still waiting for him. "Father will be very angry if you go," Deane observed, with a sharp shake of his head. Why would she wait for someone like him? Father had been correct on that score. _

"_Are you going to tell him?"_

"_That you have spoken with the solicitor and know how to circumvent his wishes?" Deane asked. The look on Samuel's face was so earnest that Deane would hold the secret as long as Samuel wished. "Your plan is safe from my perspective, little brother. But I find it disheartening that you would defy Father so obviously when he needs both of us." _

"_I knew you would take his side!" Samuel snapped, grabbing his own waistcoat. Seconds later, he had vacated the room just as angrily as Father had just moments before. The carolers were singing Mother's favorite carol._

_Deane lay down on the bed, head braced on his folded arms._

_He was alone._

"This appears to be a commonplace occurrence in your life," the spirit said softly. Deane did not respond, and lifted the creature's arm himself before it could say anything else.

To his astonishment, the ghost said nothing else.

* * *

_A feminine hand brushed a tangle of brunette curls. The curls spilled from underneath a heavy comforter, and someone was crying softly._

_There was the sound of a door opening, and an older woman's voice asked, "Will she not eat anything, Miss? I made her something special for Christmas…"_

"_She will not, Mary." A younger woman's voice sighed. "Perhaps you can reason with her? You raised both of us."_

"_I did no such thing, Miss. Just made certain that Lady Cecily would be proud of both you. And she would – the way you both turned out." An older woman's hand joined the younger one brushing the brunette curls. "Tonight will be the hardest, Miss Penelope. But only tonight."_

"_You will learn to love Peter," the young woman added. "He is not unhandsome." _

Deane's stomach clenched. His brain had rebelled to the point of manufacturing scenes about her. He punished himself often enough when sober, let alone when he was intoxicated. "We're leaving!" he proclaimed. "This entire situation is insupportable!" Deane had even created a semblance of the cousin from her letter – the cousin with some silly fashionable name he did not recall – along with an older version of the woman who gave them pound cake when they were children.

The spirit looked at him, and shook its head persistently. "You need to understand the magnitude of what you have lost."

"I already understand the magnitude of what I cannot have," Deane hissed. "Why do you insist on tormenting me?" Even though it was a dream, action would be far preferable to watching such a scene played upon his intellect. Deane reached for the gun he kept in his side holster, but it was empty. "Blast it! You are a damned malignant creature." Hazel eyes narrowed. "And know this, you foul thing. I shall find your name, hunt the world over for your resting place and dance a jig upon your burned and salted bones!"

"Please," the creature replied. Its face softened. "It would be a blessing." One long-fingered hand pointed towards the bed. "Do you not even wish to look at her?"

Deane turned his back. "I do not."

"_But Peter…" a small, muffled voice said. "He – " _

"_Peter is the man you have chosen to marry, cousin," the young woman's voice replied. "It is common to be frightened of your duties, Penelope. Mrs. Howard has often told us so." Her hand stroked the curls fiercely. "She said she would be happy to speak with you after the ceremony. To prepare you for tonight."_

_The speech elicited more sobs from Penelope. "I am doing this for Father's sake," the small voice cried. "Peter is his favorite student," she added. "And it is not that, Verd. There was someone else – " Her voice cracked. "A long time ago."_

"_Oh, Penelope," the young woman said softly, as Penelope cried forcefully underneath the comforter. "It will work out for the best."_

"_And if it does not," the older woman added, with a sorrowful tilt of her head, "You have performed your duty, Miss Penelope. And that would make your mother very proud of you. Very proud of you."_

"I have never forgotten you, Penny," Deane managed, his voice as gruff as the tweed on Samuel's favorite waistcoat, but he could listen to no more of the conversation. _There was someone else…a long time ago. _ Was she speaking of him? "But you are better off without me," Deanne added aloud. Hazel eyes focused on the spirit standing beside him, half expecting to see the same malicious glee in its eyes as he had before – the same malicious glee that matched those yellow eyes he had seen earlier in the far corner of the room. Its eyes were gentle.

"You have not," the ghost said. "Yet you often enjoy the company of a female companion, and every night you keep from calling out one name. The same name every single night." The apparition's smile suddenly showed its pointed teeth. "One must wonder which is the bigger lie – the heart that is true or the body that chooses not to pursue the heart's desire."

"That dream is dead," Deane snapped in reply.

The spirit raised its arm, but not before smiling again at Deane. "There is still time to see what she looks like, that face you reconstruct every night upon the face of another."

"Leave!" Deane muttered – but as they flew up through the ceiling, he looked down into the room. They were flying so quickly, that Deane was unable to see her face as the small bundle burst from underneath the comforter and hugged the young woman sitting next to her. Deane could see her hair, though, as it tumbled over her shoulders.

_The same color as her mother's… _

* * *

Their feet landed upon the floor of the room, and the ghost let go of Deane's hand. Deane immediately walked towards the table, and swallowed the remainder of the whisky within the tumbler before he turned to glare upon the creature. It appeared to shrivel even smaller underneath the weight of his stare.

The clock outside chimed a quarter to the hour. "My brother shall be here soon," the spirit wheezed.

"Splendid," Deane returned resentfully. "That will afford me enough time to procure another bottle of whisky from the establishment next door."

One claw-like hand clasped itself around Deane's wrist. "But you cannot leave the room, Deane Winchester. The spell will not allow you to leave."

"Spell?" he roared. "You ensorcelled me, you blasted spirit?"

The creature sank backwards, drifting towards the fire as it let go of his hand. "It is part of the trick," the ghost returned – and, for a split second, Deane believed that the face was that of a child's, its hair curly with a silvery sheen upon it. "Time twists, time bends. Always the plot. Always the secrets." It pointed one finger at Deane. "Beware of the heart that betrays you."

And it was gone.

Deane shook his head. "There is no possible way I am suitably intoxicated for the next spirit," he said aloud. Watching the broken pieces of his life for yet another hour was not a painless exercise, and it would require additional fortification. Deane stormed towards the door, and found the handle stuck. He was unable to open it. An examination of the windows provided the same inability to exit the room. The damnable spirit was correct!

He sighed. Father often kept an extra supply of absinthe within his valet case. That would be his next choice once the whisky was depleted – even though Deane despised absinthe.

* * *

A/N:

It is my sincere hope that my own Wee!Chesters are as sincere and true to the characters as the person who inspired me to try and write them. Yep, it's wenchpixie. ;-P

Christmas poppers – with small gifts inside – were quite popular as children's gifts during the Victorian era. I saw it as the DeaneVerse equivalent of Lucky Charms, as the entire scene was my revision of _Something Wicked_.


	3. The Second of the Three Spirits

_**A Christmas Carol**_

Twenty years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home.

This tale takes place within the **_Supernatural By Gaslight_** universe (AKA, the DeaneVerse), and is the prequel to the main storyline in _By Gaslight_.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchesters, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Deane Winchester, Penelope Hillsworth, Samuel Winchester, John Winchester, Vertiline Lucas, Mary

Pairings (Overall): None

Rating (Overall): PG-13

Rating: PG-13 (Angst. Gore.)

Summary: Deane Winchester is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Present, and learns secrets he does not wish to know.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

* * *

**Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits**

_Beware of the heart that betrays you._

Deane snorted himself awake at the memory of the wheezing spirit's admonition. He was sitting in his seat near the table, a half-empty tumbler of whisky sitting in front of him. Deane sighed, feeling the beat of the chimes outside within the boundaries of his sorely abused skull – marking the time once more as midnight.

"I drank entirely too much," he said aloud. The outcome of that intransigence resulted in the strangest set of nightmares that Deane had yet endured within his lifetime; no small occurrence given the dream stealer the Winchesters had battled three years ago. A collection of memories best forgotten was the price he paid for his indulgence. The sad recollection of a family that lost its mother, and the fracturing of her sons' lives as the memory of her smile dwindled within them.

Deane's throat ached at the reminiscence of his mother's last Christmas – the way she smiled as she sang, the way Father looked at her when she did so. After that day, Christmas was a trial to be endured, so it came as no surprise that his brain – so befuddled by whisky – had birthed the scene in Penelope's bedroom; the childish figment sprung forth from his feverish intellect would have him believe that she had wished for him.

No such woman would wait for a man who hunted demons. Even if she had been foolish enough to do so, the relationship was doomed to end with Penelope Hillsworth on a ceiling, her abdomen slashed just like his mother's in the end. Penelope Hillsworth would die within a fire, because she was unfortunate enough to love a Winchester. Father was correct on that account.

"Damn and blast!" It was the season that made him so maudlin – about his mother, about a girl who used to kiss his freckles. Even about Samuel, who had made his choice so easily, living his life far away from the hunt and the loss that dogged their steps across Europe. A life without his family. Deane could do nothing for the Winchesters' fate – it was marked by too much grief in the end – but he could set the memories of that girl to rest.

He would burn her letter. _I should have burned it years ago._ Deane had lied to Father, and told he had done so mere weeks upon its receipt.

"_After_ I finish my whisky," Deane informed the room.

No sooner had he made the statement, a gust of wind burst through the fireplace and it flashed brightly – so brightly that Deane was forced to close his eyes while he swallowed the rest of whisky in his glass. _Sod it all._ He would need to relight the fire before he could burn the letter, and that would require Deane to remove himself from the chair.

There was a low rumble next to his elbow, a laugh that sounded as though it came from the bowels of a preternatural creature. Deane whirled in his seat to spy the burliest figment to come out of his imagination since the strange dream had begun.

It was a large creature, standing a full seven feet tall. It wore a green robe, matted and stained; the white fur decorating the edges of the robe was accented by rusty stains that could only be blood. Deane shivered in spite of himself. Fleshy folds bulged from everywhere, as though the ghost overindulged in food and drink to the point of grave excess, and its long dark hair was as matted as the velvet on its robe. Only the eyes seemed to sparkle, underneath a crown of thorns and holly that left tiny red rubies upon the spirit's brow.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," the creature pronounced, in a voice as odorous as a sepulcher. Deane winced at the stench, feeling the whisky within his stomach turn. Behind the apparition, a face appeared – gaunt, with yellow eyes. It appeared familiar, although lost within Deane's memory.

Deane sighed. "I suppose you are here to torture me next, spirit?"

Round shoulders shrugged. "There seems little alternative at this point, Deane Winchester, although torture is too strong a word." Its teeth were as sharp as the former spirit's when the creature smiled at him. "My siblings and I prefer to think that we bring enlightenment to those we visit."

"No doubt," Deane returned. "But I shall give you the same warning I gave your _sibling_, spirit. I have no other goal in mind than to destroy the lot of you, should you prove to be real. I shall burn all your bones, and no one will mourn your passing."

"That would be a great service," the spirit replied, dragging Deane out of his chair with one strong pull. The chair fell backwards behind him as Deane glared at the ghost.

They shot through the window of the room, passing easily through the glass.

_What the devil? They wish to die… _

* * *

_"I do not speak in jest!" Samuel Winchester pronounced, taking a quick drink from his glass of ale and setting it soundly on the table in front of him. "My father is an obstinate fool, and my older brother is his lapdog. Always doing my father's bidding." Samuel snorted. "The only act that affords Deane some small measure of happiness is the occasional bit of praise. I **think** Father complimented him once six years ago." _

_Samuel's words carried the impressive veracity that came from being thoroughly intoxicated._

_He was sitting in the common room of the Practitioner Hall, surrounded by four other boys of similar appearance – hair slicked down on either side, high starched collars. Every single one of them wearing glasses. Papers and metallic contraptions scatted amongst them, along with jugs of ale._

_"Surely you are joking," a red-haired man with freckles on his face and hands retorted. "Samuel, does not your father know you were brought into Society by Lord Hillsworth?"_

_"Maxwell, my family used to live next door to the Hillsworths," Sam returned with a sarcastic tilt to his head. "Father should have been thrilled at his patronage, instead of insulting the man at every opportunity. As though being a Practitioner pales in comparison to what **they** do." Samuel snorted. "They are disreputable men, and yet the mock my calling?"_

_"What does your family do?" asked the earnest blonde boy sitting at the end of the table._

_"Nothing," Samuel snorted. "They are wastrels, drinking and wenching their way across the Continent. Deane has even taken up gambling to pay for their incidentals, as they often travel to locations where Mr. Meeks cannot easily meet them."_

Deane felt as though a hot poker had been inserted into his stomach. It was not as though he expected Samuel to relay the truth – a group of scientists would not appreciate the supernatural elements of the Winchesters' employment – but to hear his little brother's condemnation so strongly was a hurt he did not expect. There was a time, once, where Samuel had enjoyed the travel – if not the hunting itself.

"Is this not your beloved younger brother pronouncing this judgment on your life?" The rotund spirit beamed at him, beady eyes glowing over its fleshy cheeks. "The one for which you would die?" the ghost added.

Deane grit his teeth and continued to listen.

_"It must be difficult being the white sheep of your family, Samuel," Maxwell observed._

_"It is, indeed." Samuel nodded, and suddenly his face was lit with a brilliant smile. "Do you know, I have finally finished the preliminary design for my night goggles?"_

_"The headgear you were discussing during last month's meeting?" the blonde boy asked. "Those would be quite the boon to Scotland Yard, or a private detective such as Mr. Holmes."_

_"I had another idea in mind for them once," Samuel said softly, and his eyes clouded. "But Father has indicated no assistance from my quarter would be appreciated in his athletic endeavors."_

Hope momentarily rose within Deane's chest – Samuel was creating gadgets that could be used on the hunt.

_"And, truly, I have no desire for my ideas to be utilized for the benefit of men who deride my scientific passions," his younger brother continued. "If only Deane would cease his constant letters!" He laughed, joined by his companions. "I am surprised he did not send me one for Christmas. He's a sentimental fool."_

"Even your closest kin believes your life to be worthless, Deane Winchester" the spirit said. "What possible reason have you to remain in this world? You could be dead within hours, and no one would mourn your loss."

Deane's eyes burned. How many innocents had they saved in their mission? Too many to count. Too many to remember. And he had nothing to show for it. Samuel had friends. Even Father had friends, and had married Mother; surely Father's devotion to the cause came from happiness. Deane's devotion came from duty.

The spirit left and dragged Deane by the hand through a window.

* * *

_The house was aglow with lights from within, shining brightly out its windows. Holiday decorations swirled across the main lintel of the hallway as two women crossed through the front door. Snowflakes covered their cloaks – both black velvet, fashionably cut – and a servant stood nearby. They were followed by three men, who called out to them in amused voices._

_The taller woman turned, but did not remove her cloak. Her laugh was light, and a white glove emerged from the edge of her cloak to clasp the shorter woman on the arm. "Do you see, cousin? This will be an excellent night."_

_"I do not," a husky voice proclaimed. "I can scarcely breathe." The woman was obviously suffering from some form of congestion – most likely within her lungs._

_"Uncle would not allow me to attend without a chaperone," the taller woman replied. "And I could not choose between the three of them," she added, with another round of gay laughter._

_"Peter would not wish me to attend regardless," the shorter woman proclaimed. "I am sick, Vertiline Lucas, and you are going to be the death of me with your flirting." She placed both of her hands, ungloved, upon the rim of her cloak. "**Three** suitors at once? It is a record, is it not?" Even with a cold, Penelope's sarcasm was evident._

Deane turned swiftly on his heel. _I will not look at her. _His brain was obviously rebelling against him with yet another vision of that blasted girl. He should have burned her letter eight years ago, unread and unopened.

"She seems happy, despite what you have done to her." The spirit said, a blast of charnel-tinged air bursting past Deane. Her cousin had replied to Penelope's jest, and Penelope was laughing – the adult version of the laughter that followed Deane throughout a meadow filled with wildflowers. "So many lives rebuilt after you touched them," the apparition taunted. "And every new life is better than the one you left broken."

"Burning your bones will not be good enough," Deane muttered. _And she is happy. That is a satisfactory outcome for me._

The spirit simply chortled, and they melted away.

* * *

_The room was cold, and Father was sitting at the table – a glass full of green liquid in his cup. He was leaning with his elbows against the table, and his head in his hands. There was nothing left within his bottle of absinthe. He raised his head, eyes red and shining as though they were full of tears._

_Father pulled a locket from his trouser pocket, and opened it. _

Deane knew the portrait that was painted within its jeweled form.

"_Mary. I have failed you, Mary." Father's voice was slurred, as though he had been drinking for quite some time. "You do not know how much I have failed you."_

_Father said nothing for a time, simply stared at the open locket, before taking another slow swallow from his glass. "My entire life is a mockery of your wishes. Your plans for our beautiful young boys. The men they would have become."_

_"Samuel has forsaken the entire family," Father continued. "He does not even wish to avenge you. Your youngest son, the boy whose body you shielded as you died, would rather make toys with his silly playmates than revenge your passing. He is a disappointment to me, Mary."_

"You never understood Samuel," Deane proclaimed aloud. He knew that the vision would not hear him, that he was simply observing the scene within the confines of his own mind, but he felt compelled to make the observation nonetheless. Father had done the best he could, but Samuel's spirit had often suffered despite such good intention.

_Father took another slow swallow. "And Deane…" He sighed. "He remains, but only because it is his duty to remain. A part of him resents me for keeping him so close, but is unwilling to confront me or choose another path. And another part of him does not seem to care what sort of man he has become. The women he uses. The gambling."_

_He closed the locket. "It would have been better had we never met, Mary. You would not have died, and your sons would not grow up to be such disappointments." He raised his glass and swallowed it down completely. "Merry Christmas, Mary."_

It was the absinthe speaking on his father's behalf. Deane knew that – there had been other such occasions, where the Green Fairy unloosed Father's tongue and those emotions he kept so well hidden presented themselves to the world. It was not his father speaking. It was the alcohol.

It was always the alcohol.

Deane believed that, and yet the words stung. _And another part of him does not seem to care what sort of man he has become._ It had to be the absinthe speaking with his father's voice. How many nights had Father complimented him on the night's winnings? How many times had Father's voice shown gentle amusement at Deane's conquests of those comely young women who crossed their path? Father had even apologized, once, for what he had asked of Deane.

_We always leave something behind, son._

Deane could have been happy, despite his Mother's death. There were opportunities that he had ignored to follow Father once Samuel had left them for Oxford. Deane had yet the time to correct the mistake, but both sons could not leave their Father alone on John Winchester's long hunt. Father had raised him in the best fashion he could manage, and so it did not truly matter that Mother would have wished Deane to be happy. Deane had stayed, even though Mother would not wish any of them to be as they had become.

"Your father seems likewise unimpressed with you." The ghost had a merry twinkle in its eyes, the smile mocking as it wiped one finger across its ample cheek. "You have failed everyone whom you claim to love." It put one finger aside of its nose. "I wonder what your mother would think of you."

Deane sighed, closing his eyes. _I was sent by those who consider your worth, and the worth of your family, to be of importance in the upcoming storms ahead._ He hoped that it was true. It was the only thought which allowed him to retain what fragile hold he carried upon himself. It was a dream, the figment of his whisky-addled imagination – but in his dreams, his mother cared when all else did not.

_Blast!_

The spirit chortled maniacally as they left the room behind them.

* * *

_The woman walked down a dark alley, a basket full of unsold flowers in her hand. It was cold, the wind bitterly whipping between buildings, and she wrapped her shawl more tightly about her thin shoulders. She looked worn, exhausted by her day's endeavors, but she was singing softly as she walked._

_She could not have been more than twenty years old._

"_It came a floweret bright," her reedy voice sang, challenging the wind – a dare to the cold pouring through her, "Amid the cold of winter, when half spent was the night."_

_Her voice, weak from fatigue, was strong enough to hide the scrape of a claw upon the wall behind her. Something was following her, scratching the brick of a nearby building. Long streaks that marked its slow passage. It smelled of death, cold and calculated._

_Two children appeared at the end of the alley, in patched clothing – a little boy and a little girl, both with the same colored hair as the woman. The girl stumbled behind the boy, no older in appearance than four years of age. The boy might have been older, but only by a year or so. _

Deane's body shifted automatically towards the creature as it trailed them. _Damn and blast!_ It was the Winchesters' curse – no matter how many innocents they saved, there were always more who died at the hands of foul creatures. Society might have scorned the woman for what she had become, but Deane Winchester could not. He had made as many mistakes as this young woman.

The thought of children in danger ripped open a hold inside of him where even memories of Samuel did not invade.

"_Mama!" the little boy cried. "The Fellowship says we can come for Christmas goose!"_

"_And roasted potatoes," the girl added. Her eyes widened, the desire for hot food clearly written across her features._

"_It's going to be the best Christmas!" the boy said, taking his mother's basket and slipping his hand into hers._

"Run!" Deane bellowed. "Run, _now_!" His heart ached that such an action was useless. Deane could sense the creature's approach, knowing that it was biding its time. His profession had given him insight into the workings of a monster's mind – and he understood their actions more easily than _any_ human's behavior. The beast was savoring the innocence of the moment before its kill.

He turned on the spirit. "Enough! Allow me to help them!"

"Help them?" the ghost replied. "You cannot save everyone. This is their time, Deane Winchester."

"_I have both of you," the woman said softly. The girl took her mother's free hand in her own. "It will always be the best Christmas." The woman squeezed both of her hands, and started her song once more. "Isiah 'twas foretold it, the Ro – " _

_There was a growl, and the monster slashed at the woman's neck._

_The little girl screamed, a spout of blood from her mother's severed head pouring upon her patched dress. The scream was short-lived; the monster tumbled onto her small form, and ripped out her throat. A high, keening moan of pleasure filled the entire alley._

_The boy managed three steps before the beast slammed his tiny body into the ground._

"Do you often wonder how many innocents die?" the spirit asked, its bulbous head tilted to one side as it watched the creature rip the little boy's body, thin shreds of flesh hanging off of its claws. "You cannot even save two small children and their mother." Its voice was a malicious slide, its breath smelling like a charnel house. "And no matter how many mothers you do save, it will never bring back your _own_ mother."

Deane's eyes burned. The ghost could amuse itself with its petty jabs. Even if it was merely a dream, Deane Winchester was going to find bones to salt and burn the moment he awakened.

* * *

As soon as their feet alighted on the floor, Deane roared and turned to face the spirit. The ghost placed its feet firmly on the ground as Deane charged, even though Deane's body simply passed through its form. It laughed while the clock outside chimed quarter to the hour.

"Your strength does you credit, Deane Winchester," the spirit replied, its expression suddenly serious, "But you do not know whom you are fighting."

Deane grinned, and he sidled towards the table. One hand suddenly shot out and snatched the crucifix hidden underneath the letter he had written for Samuel. _If only Deane would cease his constant letters! _He swallowed. "Christo!" Deane shouted.

The spirit seemed to shimmer, but did not shy away from Deane; in its place, a kindly face surrounded by brown curls stared back at him. The creature was dressed in a sumptuous robe, and it smiled sadly before shifting back to its initial form. "It is the trick, Deane Winchester," the apparition said. "We are not your enemy."

The crucifix fell from Deane's hand. "What in blazes are you?"

"That is not your concern," the ghost replied. "My sister will be here soon to visit you. She is the last. After that…" its voice trailed off, and it shook its head in a fashion that bespoke of sorrow – no matter the grin of its pointed teeth within its fleshy face. "The spell will be undone."

The spirit left him.

Deane pulled Father's journal from its satchel, and opened it. He poured himself another tumbler full of whisky. Father might not approve of Deane's methods, but Deane would resolve this issue before the spell freed whatever magic it was building.

He was a Winchester, no matter how disappointing he might be to his parents.

* * *

A/N:

As is no doubt obvious, being a woman in the Victorian era was not entirely pleasant. A woman was expected to marry according to her family's wishes, and duty – above all – was paramount. A common phrase describing women from the era was "A woman is made to suffer and be still."

As always, feedback is welcome. Comments are the things that make this fangirl dizzy.


	4. The Last of the Spirits

_**A Christmas Carol**_

Twenty years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home.

This tale takes place within the **_Supernatural By Gaslight_** universe (AKA, the DeaneVerse), and is the prequel to the main storyline in _By Gaslight_.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchesters, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Pairings (Overall): None

Rating (Overall): PG-13

Rating: PG-13 (Angst. Gore.)

Summary: Deane Winchester meets the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and is forced to witness – and do nothing about – the storm that is coming.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

* * *

**Stave Four: The Last of the Spirits**

Deane finished the last of the whisky, pouring the final dregs down his throat by tipping himself backwards in his chair. It was unseemly of him, as a Baronet's son, but even Father did not believe that he was a gentleman. He _could_ be one if the situation required, but there was nothing within his present circumstance that would necessitate such behavior. And Father did not engage in High Tea while hunting.

He had found nothing within the journal that mentioned three spirits of a forsaken holiday. Deane had suspected that he was wandering in uncharted territory when the use of Latin had no effect upon the spirits – the one pretending to be his mother, or those who followed. If it was a dream, it would make sense that such might occur. If it were not a dream, then Deane Winchester was entirely outside of the scope of his general experience.

In either case, more whisky was required.

"Bugger me!" Deane cried as the bells in the street began to chime midnight once more. The ringing within his head was unbearable, and he could barely focus his eyes upon the journal. There was an interesting recollection of an encounter with a succubus, complete with drawings, which had garnered Deane's attentions before the incessant chiming of the bells.

A blast of cold air settled upon his cheek – so frigid that Deane would have sworn it blew through the window. An impossibility, of course, given that the child-sized miscreant of a ghost who began the tortuous night had locked it soundly from the outside and Deane was trapped within the room. He shrugged and stumbled towards the window; as suspected, it was firmly shut and would not open, despite the fact that Deane had left it unlatched. He considered using the poker from the fireplace to break the window, but that would only have added to the unsettled noises within his sorely abused brain.

When he turned, Deane found himself facing the last of the spirits promised by the apparition of his mother.

The phantom gravely stood its ground, shrouded in a deep black garment – a robe which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. Its mere presence filled Deane with a solemn dread, and part of his brain became alert despite being soaked in whisky.

"Are you the last apparition come to taunt me?" Deane inquired. He braced himself upon the table to stand properly. "The blasted Ghost of a Christmas that is damnably Yet to Come?"

The spirit neither spoke nor moved. It simply turned and pointed towards the wall, waiting for Deane to begin marching through the brick.

"Are you deficient?" Deane shook his head. "I am not…" His voice trailed off, as the spirit pointed towards the wall – making an emphatic gesture. "I still believe that you are deficient," he muttered as his footsteps began shuffling in the direction towards which Deane had been appointed. A part of him was not surprised when he easily passed beyond the structure, but the other part of Deane's mind had begun screaming.

_This is what it must feel like to go mad._

* * *

_Snow was gently falling from the sky, kissing the gravestones upon which it fell like a blessing from Heaven. Two women, both blonde, stood before one of the newest stones within the cemetery; both were dressed in sensible attire, although not mourning clothes, and were holding umbrellas above their heads to shield themselves from the weather._

_One appeared to be a younger version of the other. It was the oldest who turned when ponderous footsteps approached, her face wary, but it was the younger who clutched the crucifix in her hand suspiciously. Both held themselves in a fashion that bespoke a confidence and capability beyond their feminine demeanor._

_A man stepped towards them, rough beard above his lopsided collar. He was dressed in workman's clothing – large boots and a patched overcoat. The man smiled circumspectly, hands outstretched in a universal symbol of peace. "I did not expect to find anyone at his grave today," he said. "Not with such clouds in the sky."_

Deane's eyes widened. "Robert Singer!" he exclaimed, glancing sidelong at the spectre. The ghost's only action was to point imperiously towards the scene unfolding before them, and Deane abruptly closed his mouth.

_"Nor did we, sir," the older woman replied. Her eyes narrowed, and she stretched one gloved hand towards the man. "Mrs. Harvelle." It was a simple statement. "And may I present my daughter Josephine?" Mrs. Harvelle tilted her head._

_"Robert Singer," he replied gruffly, taking Mrs. Harvelle's hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Robert's eyes narrowed. "You would not be related in some way to William Harvelle? He was quite the hunter in his day."_

_"Yes, he was," Josephine Harvelle returned, her glittering eyes narrowing as she placed the crucifix inside her reticule._

_"William Harvelle was my husband, sir," the older woman replied. She sighed suddenly. "They were friends, you see." She gestured towards the gravestone. "He had warned us, long ago, of the signs which foretold the coming storm. We believed him simply a man lost in his grief, pouring out prophecies from the mouth of a green fairy, but now…" Her voice trailed off and she lowered her head._

_No…_ A suspicion arose. _Did she refer to the Green Fairy?_

"Who the bloody hell are these people?" Deane turned upon the phantom. In all their travels, they had not come across any hunters beyond those few who trained John Winchester on his task; and yet this strange woman seemed to be referring to his father. _At a graveside!_

The black-robed creature at his side said nothing.

_"And now his most dire warnings are upon us," Robert returned simply, kneeling by the gravestone. "We have done our best to prepare, old friend. I hope that you are watching over us. The final battle will take place where it began, and God help us if he does not arrive in time."_

_"I hope that all those who have gone ahead are watching over us," Mrs. Harvelle added. Her daughter nodded, eyes softening, and she took her mother's free hand as they watched Robert Singer. "The storm is no longer coming," the widow added._

_Josephine nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Tonight the world ends."_

_"Not if that boy can help it." The man's voice was gruff. "Yet if he cannot, I have one final drink for you." Robert pulled a bottle of absinthe from his coat, and started pouring it upon the soil nearest to the headstone. The Harvelles turned, and began walking away. Robert began singing softly under his breath, an old song that John Winchester had loved in his youth._

Deane swallowed. He had known since Mrs. Harvelle's speech that it was his father's grave, but he felt the chill touch move rapidly up his spine nonetheless as the shock of the realization made manifest cascaded through his whisky-soaked brain. The date upon the headstone was 1891.

"Please." His voice was soft. "Is there no other date but the year? If I know – " Deane took a deep breath. "If I know than I can stop it from happening. Surely there is something that I can do!" Deane knew that he was a disgrace – to both the expectations of his mother, and the teachings of his father – but John Winchester would not die so long as his eldest son still carried breath within his body. "I will warn him, even if you do not tell me the manner in which to save him!" His eyes were wild. "I _will_ save him!"

But the spirit merely pointed in another direction, and said nothing.

Deane had no choice but to follow the ghost's instructions, Robert Singer's words leaving a freezing shadow within Deane's aching breast.

_Not if the boy can help it._

* * *

_The streets were full of personages rushing between shops. A group of carolers stood upon the corner, gathered around a street lamp and singing joyfully beneath the gently falling snow. Most folk upon the street smiled as they passed each other, holding open doors or picking up fallen parcels. Voices called out with the occasional 'Merry Christmas' amidst the throng of the crowd._

_Within the sky, large-winged creatures had begun to wing between buildings – often perching upon the tops of shops and stores, staring upon the shoppers walking below them. Innocent people unknowing of the presence that flew silently above them, misshapen figures against the stars._

"Father used to say that Man's indifference was one of the reasons Evil could flourish," Deane observed softly, but he knew that even one child pointing up to the heavens would not convince the crowd as to their fate. He felt distinctly ill.

_Shadowy figures gathered within the dark spaces that the gas lanterns along the street could not illuminate – the shrunken faces of old men and women standing shoulder to shoulder with the blank-eyed stares of children. The falling snow did not seem to affect them as they stood in their decrepit clothing, tatters blowing within the gentle breeze that pushed the falling snow into the faces of those too innocent to see the spirits gathering around them._

Every sense within his body quivered. "Let me warn them," Deane whispered – even though he knew the request would fall upon deaf ears. "Please…"

_Figures started lurching within the crowd, stumbling side to side, and the smell of rot filled the air as skin split across joints, shunted to the ground. Strips of flesh gave way to bones and muscles, full of putrefaction, as the hooting cries of the dead began answering the winged creatures in the sky._

_And the living did not notice what walked among them – save for one little girl, who turned to her mother and said, "The storm is here." Her eyes were black, and she smiled._

Deane could do nothing but stare while the creatures within the crowd began their assault. Despair filled him – it was to prevent things such as this that the Winchesters fought, to keep those creatures Man was not meant to know from walking the roads of the Earth. The future showed how worthless such actions were, how futile their attempts had been.

The sacrifices they had made meant nothing in the end.

He swallowed. "Why are you showing me this, spirit?"

The emptiness within the apparition's hood gave no response, yet one long-fingered hand pointed towards the wall of a common house. Deane sighed. He had no other choice but to follow, the screams of the innocent following in their wake.

_The storm is here._

* * *

_An old man, white hair around his ears, came running down a long hall. It was dark outside, with just enough light from the moon to make out a gently falling snow. He was dressed in comfortably fashionable clothing – the waistcoat and trousers of a gentleman – but his eyes were wild as he ran. There were five scratches across his cheek, as though someone had raked their nails across his face._

"_You cannot hide from me, Father," a woman's voice intoned, streaming like oil from the darkness from which the man had come. "I can smell your blood." _

"_Do not," the man wailed, stumbling as the woman laughed. "I beg you. Spare my life."_

"_As I asked you to once spare mine," the dead voice replied. A woman emerged from the shadows in the hallway, a vampire's visage twisted upon her features. A face unrecognizable, but her hair was still the same color as her mother's. _

"Dear God," Deane murmured. He could not avert his eyes from her.

_She marched forward purposefully towards the cringing old man. In one hand, she carried the remains of a red-haired corpse, which she tossed carelessly to her side. "No," the old man moaned. "You died in Paris, all those years ago."_

"_I died. And then, it would appear, that I recovered."_

"_Please," Winston Hillsworth asked when his daughter stood next to him. "Spare me, Penelope."_

"_I would spare your life," she said, a wicked smile revealing all the teeth within her mouth. She bent down to pick up her father's flailing body, ripping the collar he wore about his neck. "But I am closest to the one for whom we fight, and I require sustenance."_

_Her teeth fell upon her father's neck, and the old man shrieked while he died._

"_Right, then," Penelope stated softly, her father's body falling to the ground as unthinkingly as the woman she had thrown. She cocked her head, as though she were hearing a voice. "Yes," she said, her father's blood still fresh upon her lips – face still malformed into a vampire's countenance. "Yes, I am coming to you now. I shall be the anchor within your storm."_

_And she walked back down the hall the way that she had come._

"_This_ is her destiny?" Deane's voice was a wound, even to his own ears. Penelope Hillsworth, the girl who believed in faeries when she was but four, had been turned into a vampire – an undead fate even worse than the one he had tried to keep from her. At least her soul would have yet remained her own.

"Is it too late?" Deane asked. His throat ached. "When your brother showed her to me earlier, she was yet alive and unturned. Can you not even tell me when such a calamity occurs?" He would save her, just as he would save his father. He _had_ to save her. "I will not do anything to otherwise change her fate. How can I make you understand?" Deane's voice cracked. "She believed in _faeries_ when she was a _child_!"

The ghost shook its head, its black robe billowing around its form. The spirit was pointing towards one of the windows. Deane's heart lurched. He knew what lay in the direction where the thing was indicating.

_Home._

* * *

"_Samuel!"_

_Deane moved carefully amidst the rubble of their old home, glad that his old pea coat was buttoned firmly across his chest. The snow was falling gently, but the wind was bitterly cold – crying through the broken walls in which he crawled. Samuel was somewhere within the structure, searching for the spot of his rebirth._

_The room in which their mother had died protecting him._

"_I know that you are here, Samuel!" Deane's voice carried against the wind. He was limping, and it was difficult to traverse the walls with his vision impaired – he had lost an eye in a fight with a werewolf several years earlier, during his last hunting expedition with his younger brother. _

_Deane had vowed to never return home. He had traveled to Westhire as required, but he had yet to step foot within the environs of his family's ancestral manor. Yet here he was, crossing bits of shattered brick and wood searching for Samuel._

_Everything in his life had led Deane to this moment, where the hope that the light instilled within his younger brother's soul – the compassion within that caused such sacrifice – could yet withstand the darkness into which Samuel Winchester had happily plunged himself. _

_Deane found his younger brother in his old nursery, standing within the midst of a burning circle. "How pleasant of you to attend me, Deane," Samuel said with the same smile Deane remembered on their long hunt. He looked no older than he had when they had parted ways, almost eight years ago. The day they could not save the Beast from claiming an innocent girl._

It _should_ have surprised Deane that he was hearing the thoughts of his future self as though they were occurring in his own head; the entire situation had such a dream-like quality, a part of his brain did not think it was real. Yet if he closed his eyes, Deane could ascertain the vision from the perspective of the man he would become – a man with one eye, a decided limp for his left leg and a younger brother who grinned at him as though Samuel Winchester was death come walking.

Nothing could surprise him any longer. A part of him had always believed the darkness would win. Father used to say that it was the fight that was important.

"_It is not too late," Deane said softly. He could feel the blood dripping down his arm from his altercation with the two black dogs that had been guarding his passage into the house – both were dead, but it was a difficult battle. "Father always believed that you could still be saved." He sighed. "I know the boy who listened to the stories of our mother still resides within you."_

"_Father!" Samuel snorted, his yellow eyes glowing as he pulled a sword from the woman's body lying in front of him. "He was frightened of my potential." He took one step towards Deane. "As should you be, Deane. I am the strong brother, now. I do not need you to protect me and I most certainly do not require **saving**."_

"_I have no intention of fighting you, Samuel. You are my brother." Deane braced himself; this was his final stand. "Especially not in this place. You may not remember our flight, but I do." He sighed. "Sammy, you can keep the world safe. Do not do this."_

_Samuel's face had softened at the use of his childish nickname, but then he scowled – the falling snow tinged red as it danced within Samuel's burning wheel of fire. "An excellent riposte, Deane, but you have always known the truth. I have never truly belonged in this world, and I shall rectify that oversight with your reluctant assistance."_

Deane's heart ached at that statement. There were moments where he had always feared that it was true, that Samuel was alienated from living through fears that Deane could never comprehend – though he had tried for Samuel's sake. His younger brother consoled himself with his books and his studies, two things which made his younger brother happy; the very reasons that Deane did not begrudge him the opportunity to study at Oxford – even though it broke his father in ways few other things could have done.

Even though Deane would have far preferred that his family remained intact.

"_I will never accede to that proposal, little brother!"_

"_Enough!" Samuel cried, hand outstretched. Deane went flying towards one of the walls, its sharp edges slamming into his back. "You do not understand, Deane. Had you not come, I would not be able to perform the last of the rituals. The seal requires the blood of our Mother's progeny, and I have no intention of dying this day."_

_Samuel moved his hand again, and Deane found himself on the ground – staring up into the falling red snow. Bones in his arms and legs were broken by the impact and he gasped – once – as his younger brother's face came into view. Samuel stared down at him with his yellow eyes, and smiled._

"_Thank you, Deane," his younger brother whispered, lifting the sword in his other hand. _

_The last thing Deane remembered was the thrust of the sword through his chest, and the rapturous look on Samuel's face as he touched his lips with his older brother's blood._

Deane fell to his knees, feeling the remnants of the sword within him – still connected to his future self through the magic of whatever was occurring; he tried to use the tenuous connection did not allow him sift through his other self's memory and determine the secrets which would save those he loved, but the pain was too great. Deane refused to vomit in the presence of the thing which stood next to him, silent as the grave, while his younger brother ripped the body of his future self to shreds.

He watched with hooded eyes while Samuel used blood to open whatever seal had been placed within their old home. He watched in silence while Samuel used that same blood – _his_ blood – to manufacture the storm that transformed the world into a haven for demonkind. Samuel's smirk as the world transformed itself into chaos was overshadowed only by the manic gleam in his yellow eyes.

"Yellow eyes!" Deane announced suddenly. A piece of the puzzle had presented itself.

Out of the corner of his vision, the black-robed figured nodded its head. When Deane turned to look full upon it, the movement had stopped – but it was pointing in another direction.

* * *

The phantom returned Deane to the room at the inn once it relayed its vision of the world's breaking.

Deane's head spun as much from the sights that he had been forced to endure – the sad commemoration of his father's death, the childhood friend that succumbed to undeath, and the seduction of his younger brother by the very creatures they once swore to fight – as it did from the whisky that yet slurred his speech and colored his perceptions.

Yet the world was not yet broken, and the ghost standing beside Deane had given him a potent clue. The yellow eyes that matched those that had been watching Deane throughout the night's trials – always watching to ensure that every secret, every note of despair, was pulled out of Deane by spirits sent to destroy him. The very same gleeful watchfulness that proved to be the creature's downfall.

_You will be haunted by three spirits and they have no other purpose than to break you, to find that which cuts you and use it against your very soul._

"It is Scrooge," Deane whispered, pulling the pieces he had gleaned into one whole thought. "He is the one controlling you. And yet, he is the one being controlled." He remembered notes his father had made regarding the beast that had killed their mother, a yellow-eyed demon that used the bodies of fellow man as its host. It was, therefore, difficult to kill – but the demon had shown enough of itself for Deane to recognize what it was they were fighting as easily as he now recognized the face of Scrooge peering out from the corners of the room.

The ghost said nothing, but nodded once – as slowly as one might expect a statue to move – and faded away from Deane Winchester's sight.

Deane smiled.

A demon could be _exorcised_.

* * *

A/N:

The "green fairy" referred to by Mrs. Harvelle is absinthe. That was a common nickname for it, given its color.

As always, feedback is welcome. Comments are the things that make this fangirl dizzy.


	5. The End of It

_**A Christmas Carol**_

Twenty years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home.

This tale takes place within the **_Supernatural By Gaslight_** universe (AKA, the DeaneVerse), and is the prequel to the main storyline in _By Gaslight_.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchesters, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Pairings (Overall): None

Rating (Overall): PG-13

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Deane's attempts to exorcise the Demon do not take into account whisky's effect upon one's Latin.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

* * *

**Stave Five: The End of It**

The obvious conclusion, unfortunately, did not present a simple method of execution.

In point of fact, Deane Winchester had not performed an exorcism without the assistance of a family member – his father understood which ritual to use for a particular incident, and Samuel's pronunciation of the Latin itself was far beyond Deane's abilities. He frowned. Father was still cavorting with his friend and Samuel was – if the vision was to be believed – drinking himself into stupidity.

Deane grinned suddenly – it would certain discomfit Samuel to realize that he was spending his holiday in the same fashion as the other men in the family; Winchesters were certainly foolhardy creatures when intoxicated. While Father may not approve of Deane's ghost-chasing methodology, it had certainly worked its way to a positive outcome. With additional luck, Deane would awaken in the morning no less perturbed than he otherwise would have been after consuming an entire bottle of whisky – including the inevitable memory loss that such a blessed event afforded.

There were too many memories he wished to forget. _Including events yet to come. _At the very least, Deane was intoxicated enough that the residual glimpses of her curls within his passing thoughts ached no more greatly than the memory of her letter's receipt. In truth, it was Samuel's cruel fate that carried the worst shock – even alcohol could not diminish its edge. _Perhaps the exorcism will save them all._ For unless he was mistaken, all the visions of that sad future had a common connection – a storm with Samuel Winchester as its epicenter.

He prayed that such hopeful thoughts were not the result of his whisky consumption.

The clock outside had begun to chime midnight. _Blast! _There was no true way to perform an exorcism on a man when Deane could not even leave the room. He shook his head, once, to clear his thoughts. _Think hard upon this, Deane!_ The spirits had always appeared directly at midnight, but as there were but three sent to haunt him – and the spell would not allow him to leave until they had done so – then perhaps the spell itself had reached its completion with the departure of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

Deane rushed towards the door to the room, flinging it open with a loud, "A-ha!" He peered into the hallway, hearing the sound of someone laughing downstairs, before stepping back into the room and closing the door.

Free to wander again outside the confines of his three-hour prison, Deane began gathering the objects that would be required. His father's journal was a necessity for it contained the text of the actual ceremony, along with the large wooden rosary that Samuel used when performing such tasks. Deane slipped several flasks of holy water into the special holster upon his waist, and then set about ensuring that the pistols he would bring with him were full of rock salt.

He had no desire to kill Ebeneezer Scrooge, but incapacitating the Demon's human host was not an entirely untoward proposition – particularly given that Scrooge's hands were almost as claw-like as the first spirit's.

Deane mentally reviewed the list of necessities required to perform the ritual. "Idiot," he snapped. He had forgotten an additional bag of salt – if Luck was indeed smiling on the Winchesters, then Deane would be afforded the opportunity to create a simple salt barrier prior to performing the task; a barrier which would, hopefully, limit the creature until such time as Deane could complete the words of the ritual. Luck, as Fate would have it, did not often smile upon the Winchesters and perhaps it was time for it to do so.

It was, after all, Christmas Day.

Luck, unfortunately, had determined otherwise. Deane was halfway down the hall before he realized that he did not think to bring his thieves' tools. _I doubt highly that the Demon will allow Scrooge to perform his magic with the doors to his home unlocked._ When he returned to the room to retrieve the necessary items for bypassing the locks upon Scrooge's doors, Deane realized he had no idea as to where the moneylender resided. For some reason he would never understand when relaying the tale at a later time, Deane carefully peered through a crack in the window's curtains.

Ebeneezer Scrooge was standing across the way, half-hidden in a nearby alley, staring into a dark bowl.

_You cannot hide from me, magus._

Deane grinned – it was a definite truth that Luck was a Lady and the Winchester charm had proven a boon. It would occur to him afterwards, when communicating the experience safely within the shelter of another lady's arms, that Scrooge's spell most likely required a close proximity to his victim; Deane would blame that digression, along with every other for the evening, on the whisky. (The lady in question would look upon him gravely and concur that whisky was often at the root of Deane Winchester's folly, but that is another tale.)

He walked quietly down the stairs, skirting around the back of the inn – sneaking upon Scrooge using a circular pattern that allowed him to remain unseen while inevitably surprising the magus by appearing opposite him on the other side of the alley. _Father could not have approached more effectively. _

The gaunt figure knelt in the cold snow, rocking back and forth upon his knees, as he stared into the dark bowl. The images of three spirits fluttered before him, all gazing directly upon Scrooge as he twisted his body before them. He was muttering, "Yes, yes, more memories," to himself as each spirit seemed to grow brighter. "Show me how to break him," the dark whisper continued.

Deane slipped the rosary out of his pocket, and opened the journal. "If I break the son, I break the father – and then the boy will be mine," the magus nearly sang, his sibilant hiss echoing throughout the alley, and the spirits grew brighter still. The child-sized one spied Deane; he was certain that it had done so, but it said nothing.

It was, as his father would often attest, the perfect occasion for the direct approach.

Deane charged, knocking the old man sideways to the ground. The bowl spilled beside them, dark blood moving in rivulets through the snow, and Deane choked back a gasp; the blood smelled fresh, and he had no doubt that a circumspect perusal of the alley would also mark Scrooge's latest victim. The old man screamed and turned so that Deane was straddling him about the waist. _Dear God, I hope that no one spies upon us like this!_

"Impossible!" The old man cried.

"Never underestimate the worth of a dreadful bottle of whisky," Deane replied, pressing down onto the man's face with the rosary. Scrooge screamed where it touched him, a hissing steam erupting from the skin. Deane pressed down on Scrooge's chest with the open journal.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immúnde spíritus, omnis satánica potéstas, omnis incúrsio infernális adversárii, omnis légio, omnis congregátio et secta diabólica, in nómini et virtúte Dómini nostri Jesu Christi_," Deane cried aloud, struggling to keep the journal open while Scrooge bucked against him. "_Eradicáre et effugáre a Dei Ecclésia, ab animábus ad imáginem Dei cónditis ac pretióso divíni Agni sánguini redémptis!_" he continued.

"You will burn," the magus cried. "Just like your mother!"

Insults, the man would later learn, did not work against a Winchester.

Deane gritted his teeth, jabbing the man in the neck with the hand that held the rosary before taking another breath. "_Non ultra áudeas, serpens callidíssime, decípere humánum genus, Dei Ecclésiam pérsequi, ac Dei electos excútere et cribráre sicut tríticum._" Deane gasped as the man's entire body gibbered beneath him. "Remain where you are, you insolent magus!" Deane snapped, quickly striking Scrooge's throat. "_Imperat tibi Deus altíssimus, cui in magna tua supérbia te símililem habéri adhuc præsúmis; qui omnes hómines vult salvos fíeri, et ad agnitiónem veritátis veníre!_"

Scrooge's eyes rolled back into his head, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come moved to stand above their altercation – its empty hood staring down as Deane struggled to subdue the magus. "_Imperat tibi Deus Pater; ímperat tibi Deus Fílius; ímperat tibi Deus Spíritus Sanctus._" A mist had begun to form around them, and the Ghost of Christmas Present's laughter no longer sounded mocking to Deane's ear.

"We must help him," the smallest one whispered. "While we have the chance, we must help him."

The spirits were masking the disturbance!

Emboldened by the assistance which he had not foreseen, Deane somehow managed to maintain his hold upon Ebeneezer Scrooge – even as his claw-like hands scratched against Deane's face. "_Imperat tibi Christus, ætérnum Dei Verbum caro factum, qui pro salúte géneris nostri tua invídia pérditi, humiliávit semetípsum factus obédiens usque ad mortem." _

"_Qui Ecclésiam suam ædificávit supra firmam petram et portas ínferi advérsus –"_ Deane's recitation was interrupted when Ebeneezer Scrooge's elbow came into direct and voilent contact with his throat. It hurt to speak, and yet he continued after a ragged swallow. "_Eam numquam esse prævalitúras edixit, cum ea ipse permansúrus ómnibus diébus usque ad consumatiónem sæculi Imperat tibi sacraméntum Crucis, omniúmque christiánæ fídei Mysteriórum virtus_." His voice was raspy.

Scrooge laughed, teeth gnawing so voilently against his lips that small streams of blood mixed with his spittle. "You will not win, boy," the magus returned when Deane pressed the rosary back into its face, and yellow eyes glared at him mockingly. "I will debone you as you breathe and dance upon your flesh."

Claw-like fingers encircled his throat, pushing Deane backwards with a scream. Ebeneezer Scrooge stood above him, howling louder than the last banshee the Winchesters had encountered in Dublin.

_Bloody Hell..._

"_Imperat tibi excélsa Dei Génetrix Virgo Maria, quæ superbíssimum caput tuum a primo instánti immaculátæ suæ Conceptiónis in sua humilitáte contrivit._" A man's voice echoed throughout the alley, immediately followed by the crack of gunfire. "_Imperat tibi fides sanctórum Apostolórum Petri et Pauli ceterorúmque Apostolórum!_" A wash of water splashed against Scrooge's back, and the magus screamed. "Complete the ritual, son!" John Winchester was smiling, despite the situation. The worried face of Robert Cratchit appeared above his father's shoulder; they must have arrived together.

_The man is a master!_

Deane rolled to his knees, retrieving the rosary that had fallen from his hand. He threw Scrooge back upon the ground, and the voice that sprung from his throat was a bellow that caused the three spirits pause – each of them stiff witnesses to the final moment. "_Imperat tibi Mártyrum sanguis, ac pia Sanctórum et Sanctárum ómnium intercéssio_," Deane roared.

Ebeneezer Scrooge's body convulsed, bending backwards as though his spine had been pulled back like the string within a bow, and an oily black mass expelled itself forcefully through the magus' mouth. Whatever had been possesing the old moneylender flew through the sky, momentarily blotting out the stars that sparkled above them.

Deane caught his breath, staring down upon Scrooge's face – the old man's mouth was opened wide with shock, and then the moneylender shuddered when a frog no larger than Deane's thumbnail dropped into Ebeneezer Scrooge's mouth.

"Bugger!" Deane cried, pulling Scrooge to his feet at the exact same moment that a deluge of frogs rained down upon the alley, freezing where they fell. Scrooge choked, and pulled the frog from out of his mouth.

The moneylender looked faintly ill, and then threw his arms about Deane's neck. "Thank you, good sir, thank you!" His breath, Deane noted, had a peculiar odor. _Perhaps it was the frogs?_

"It was no issue, Mr. Scrooge," Deane returned faintly, delicately attempting to remove himself from the moneylender's embrace while avoiding the vigilant – and, presently somewhat amused – eye of his father. "It is what my family does," Deane added.

Scrooge was shaking, but allowed Deane to extricate himself. "You do not understand, Deane Winchester. You have saved me from such a fate." He lowered his eyes, and he looked less like a figure from a penny dreadful and more like an old man with a burden lifted from his shoulders – even with the bloodstains about his lips. "The things it made me do. The people I have hurt." Scrooge's voice throbbed as he added, "The people I have _killed_."

He touched the old man's shoulder awkwardly, and coughed. "It was not your fault, sir," Deane said softly. He frowned. "But I must know. Is that the creature the very same one that..." Deane's voice trailed off as his father's body stiffened, and John Winchester's eyes flashed underneath the falling snow.

"Yes," Scrooge whispered. "Yes. It did not trust such an exercise to one of its minions. You have only delayed the inevitable. The storm is still coming."

_And my little brother stands directly within the midst of it._

Robert Cratchit stepped forward, glancing at his employer with what some may have considered an obsequious manner. "So I can assume, Mr. Scrooge, that..." He coughed. Deane found himself frowning despite the victory – all that seemed important to Father's friend was his reputation. _But he does not know what Scrooge was actually performing. _

The moneylender chuckled. "Of course, my boy. That matter is closed." He patted Robert Cratchit on the arm. "I've had a youthful indiscretion or two within my day, though you would not suspect by viewing me now."

"My home is not far, sir," Mr. Cratchit replied, leading Scrooge jovially out of the alley. "We can dress your wounds there. My wife has a gentle touch."

The two men laughed, talking to themselves about women as though nothing had happened. Deane sighed. That was often the way of these things – the brain could not encompass the shock of what was seen, so the situation was forgotten once a conversational topic presented itself that could otherwise be discussed. This was not the first such occurrence that Deane had witnessed through the years.

The spirits, curiously, had not yet disappeared.

The smallest came forward, looking nothing like the shriveled old man it had presented itself to be. A smile was beaming on its youthful face, and its white robe – covered with blooming flowers – shone within the gentle moonlight that now graced the alley. "Thank you, Deane Winchester," it said. The voice was as soft and youthful as a child's, but the eyes within that face stared at him gravely. "You have done me a service, and now I offer you a boon."

"I do not require a boon," Deane said, although his entire being was begging to know answers to certain questions – questions he dared not voice, either to himself or in front of his father. "It was my appointed task to save you."

The small spirit smiled. "Then I will tell you two true things." Its eyes were gentle, and it placed on hand upon Deane's arm. "The first is that the past will always remain a part of your soul, Deane Winchester." It sighed. "But the corollary to such an assertion is that the past is not necessary to determine what you will become." The ghost's smile grew bright, and it added, "And the second is my boon to you. You will have no stronger a recollection of those memories I forced you to endure. They will be no less – though no greater – than any you will recall."

Deane felt a jolt within his arm as the ghost squeezed it – and the memory of Samuel staring at the popper Deane had thrown near his hand dimmed. Although the season still reminded him of _her_, it was no stronger than before. Only the memory of his mother remained whole within his mind, and Deane smiled. He suspected he had been given a third gift, but wisely chose to say nothing.

"Your strength did serve you well, my boy!" A hearty voice boomed in Deane's ear. It was the second spirit, a large and affable creature in its original state. It bore none of the signs of excess that the demon possessing Scrooge had forced upon it, and its eyes continued to twinkle.

"I suspect it was as much the whisky as my nerve," Deane replied. There was no way to remain gloomy within the presence of such a ghost; the eyes themselves demanded a jest at every possible opportunity.

The Ghost of Christmas Present roared heartily, and slapped Deane on the back with all due mirth. "I, too, would present a boon for your efforts in affecting our relase," the spirit said. Its eyes narrowed, but were still as bright as any star in the sky. "I suspect your answer will be the same as the one you gave my brother."

Deane nodded. There was much for which he _could_ ask, but it seemed inconsequential in light of his younger brother's fate. The spirit harrumphed with a look upon its face that could only be a grin, and stated, "There is no shame within living each moment to its fullest, Deane Winchester – even at those times when you feel you should not, for fear of what may yet come. The present is as potent a gift as the past or the future. You should live it well."

"But it _is_ your future," a soft voice intervened, "Which does concern you." It was the third spirit. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come was as unlike her former self in appearance as her brothers, but she still held herself with the same serious air. The spirit was dressed in a simple robe, still black, and her hair and eyes matched it in colour – but she had a young face, and was beautiful if somewhat unearthy in appearance. No woman alive would have eyes that color. She was smiling at him. "And I will not give you the opportunity to turn down my boon."

He recoiled. "I do not wish that," Deane stammered.

"No," she replied, "But it is yours all the same." There was a stubborn look in her eyes that reminded Deane of his little brother, and he smiled in spite of himself. Samuel would _not_ fall, so long as Deane drew breath.

"You are correct," the ghost's soft voice said, breaking into his thoughts. "My boon to you is simple, Deane Winchester. I shall give you the gift of possibilities." He must have appeared confused, for the spirit continued. "Every human life is defined by moments where one decision can effect several outcomes. You will be given three chances to influence those decisions; but you must be careful, for the gift is subtle. You cannot use your influence to change singlehandedly what you have seen."

"Subtle?" he asked.

The ghost smiled. "Subtle. For example, you can use it to influence someone down a different path – such as convincing your brother to save the girl whose death will make him stop hunting." The memory of that choice filled Deane, and he knew – whatever happened – that he would not forget it. "The other two opportunities are for you to decide based on what you have already seen."

Deane's throat swelled. There was still yet a fighting chance – and that was all a Winchester needed in the end. The spirit smiled, as sweetly as any girl he had come across in his travels. "There is," she returned with a small laugh like a bell. "There is always a chance." Her eyes shone as brightly as her brothers, and she tilted her head. "Your dreams never die, but you must hold onto them when they appear once more." Her eyes were full of hope and promise.

Deane started. Although the ghost said nothing else, the look upon her face was as much a boon as anything else she could give him. He swallowed, the small ache at the back of his throat disappating as he calmed himself.

"Goodbye, Deane Winchester," the first spirit said.

The second one nodded. "You will not meet us again within your lifetime."

"But you will always have our thanks for securing our freedom," the third ghost added. She kissed him on the cheek, before the light emanating from their faces became so bright that Deane was forced to look away from them.

When they light faded, the Winchesters stood alone within the alley.

Father was staring at the fallen bowl of blood, carelessly tossed where Scrooge had dropped it when Deane first arrived in the alley. "You should practice your Latin, Deane," he said gruffly, scratching underneath his left ear. Deane felt the shift within his chest, the cold stabbing pain of disapproval. "Unless, of course, you prefer to summon hordes of tiny frogs along with your exorcism attempts," his father added, grinning. "Which, by all means, you've proven you can effectively perform."

Deane snorted. "I am a master of many things, Father, and it would appear that frog summoning ranks highly upon that list."

Father gave him a strange look, and then laughed outright. "You did well, otherwise, son." His eyes narrowed. "But we have two options once we finish cleaning the alley. We can rest for the evening, or we can go to the tavern." A smile reached his eyes. "The pretty brunette waitress was unattended when Robert and I left. She may yet be unaccompanied upon our return."

"I believe the tavern _is_ in order," Deane returned. While he was still, in fact, the very same Deane Winchester who happily pursued pleasurable assignations, there was something else he wished to do in its stead. "I would enjoy a Christmas toast with my father." His voice softened. "For Mother and Sammy."

His father said nothing, but clasped Deane upon the shoulder.

* * *

A/N:

The exorcism ritual is a real one, although I only used one paragraph of it – the first section of the actual ritual itself. Much as I love Deane and his Latin, I thought pages and pages might have been a little much.

The tiny frog summoning was an homage to the character Charlotte Webb in _Strange Angels_.

As always, feedback is welcome. Comments are the things that make this fangirl dizzy.


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